


a terribly difficult trade

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [288]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Internalized Misogyny, Nora is up to no good, Old West, POV Outsider, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of dealings with men.”― Joseph Conrad, Chance
Relationships: Arien & Original Female Character(s), Curufin | Curufinwë/Original Female Character(s)
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [288]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	a terribly difficult trade

The new woman frightened her. Nora was neither so high nor so low as to be fearless; a woman in her position feared many things. She knew—she had always known—what could wash out a life, as a river could a road.

Poverty. Starvation. Cruelty.

To avoid the storm, a woman accepted the ordinary mud that mucked her path, the ordinary days full of work that was hard, but not unbearable. A woman made herself what a man needed, so that he would not hurt her very much or very often.

Of late, she had had a chance to make a boy what _she_ needed. A bold proposition, that she might not have been equal to at twenty, or even twenty-five. Still, there was a kind of fear there. Not _of_ him—he was fragile and fumbling, more eager to please than he knew. But time was passing, Nora was growing no younger—what _was_ certainty, in a place like this? In a life like this?

Nora did not think much of her childhood; lonely, backbreaking farm-life had left few memories worth cherishing. She vividly recalled, however, how the pigs were butchered in the red-leaved autumn. Ear-splitting squeals, then silence. The smell of blood, of boiled hide, or slippery fat released from its bondage. One could only scrape the bristles off after the skin was boiled.

The dreadful, endless duties between the moment of death and the many barrels of salted pork had stayed with Nora. When a child was small, how much _did_ they understand of the difference between themselves and the penned beasts? Both were fed and scolded and shut up at night, and both were surprised when the day of slaughter came.

But Nora had lived; had grown up. Had gone west, with a man who let her share his bed not too roughly, though he would not marry her.

His wife was east, never _quite_ forgotten.

He had gone on for gold, after an injured leg had been mended at Mithrim. When his prospects had failed, he grew lonely for his old life.

Nora was nothing to him any longer. Nora was not lonely—she was _alone_ , and that was a dreadful thing in a lawless land. She crept back to Mithrim, and as it welcomed her, she had grown used to this world.

She even had grown used to its savageries. But she had not thought of the swine in a long while, not until she saw the butchery of Estrela’s features. Even the dead that Annatar had killed had not awakened the memory. They had already been dead; she had not been present for their dying.

Returning to Estrela… it was too pretty a name, for her. Perhaps she wanted one last trapping of womanhood. But what had this Estrela done, to bring such violence on herself?

 _That_ was the question that ate at Nora’s mind. Jealousy _might_ drive the knife; perhaps a madman or a madman’s wife had done it. She was, after all, a slight, brown-skinned thing, and what voice made its way out of her mouth was softened by an accent not of America. No—no one would have chosen her for a _wife_.

Not that Nora herself had ever been such a choice. The idea was, at present, that someday Curufin would grow old and strong enough to change that.

Maedhros would have done better. Maedhros was—she feared—quite gone.

At least, so it seemed, save for Estrela’s dogged interest. Danger hung around a ruined woman, of course, whether it was her face or her loins that were destroyed. Estrela was ruined but did not treat herself so enough to hide her interest; did not hang her head low enough. She had attached herself to Maedhros soon enough, slave-quarters or not; crippled state of him or not.

It was…curious.

Oh, but he’d been a fine figure of man before his capture! Nora had sought him out, had even opened his clothes a little and stolen a kiss or too, before _he_ had stiffened like a hunted thing. _Afraid_ , him—as men so seldom were. She hadn’t abandoned her quarry due to his fear; if anything, he was her primer on Curufin.

Women would not have to bear so much, if all men were as reticent as he.

But there wasn’t much left of him now. Nothing at all, she might have said, except for that they still loved him. New and old, they loved him. Nora was left curious because she had not _seen._

Curufin had not come to her for a few days running. This was no great surprise; he was uneasy with himself, repulsed as much as eager. He tried to hide himself from her, somehow _most_ when they were pressed together.

Nora reminded herself that she had time. She watched Fingon with the proud chin and the Indian braids disappear behind the door that led to Maedhros, time and again, and she watched Estrela go there, too.

 _What did you do?_ Nora wondered.

She had time, also, for an answer.

“You need not trouble yourself with the garden,” Nora said, in her kindest tone. Estrela was crouched there, the wind wreaking havoc in her cropped hair. Nora wondered if Estrela’s slavers had ever treated her as a woman. “We have many busy hands that are always plucking weeds in summer, or gathering up the potatoes come cold weather.”

Estrela turned her face and blinked her one eye shyly. Nora smiled at her.

“I did not mean to intrude,” said Estrela.

“Oh no, no—it is nothing. No trouble. I only mean you should not trouble _yourself_.”

Estrela rose awkwardly and brushed her hands clean against her trousers. Nora had a pair of trousers, if needed, but she still wore gowns out of long habit and the knowledge that womanly dress had its uses.

“Thank you,” Estrela said. “I am a little…I am thinking.” Her mangled voice was breathy.

Nora walked with her, her hands clasped at her elbows, her face turned in what she hoped was a friendly fashion. She did not like to look at Estrela, to hear and see what she heard and saw in long ago memory, but she governed her features out of long habit, too.

“What are you thinking of?”

“Something foolish.” Estrela shook her head. “I…I did not know the year, you see, and strangely enough, I did not hear of it until today. I mean—I did not know the year present. And we are near the new year!”

“Ah! Does it make you feel strange?”

Estrela nodded.

“Mithrim has been my home these three years, next summer. How many, then, does 1853 make for you?” A bold question, but she had survived by knowing when to be bold.

“Ten years!” Estrela choked, and then recovered herself. “I am sorry, I should not…excuse me.” 

But Nora caught her arm. “Wait—poor creature, you shouldn’t be sorry. It must be a hard thing. To not even know where and when you have landed! But never mind. Never mind.”

They stayed talking thus a little, in soft meaningless words of gratitude and reassurance, while Nora discovered that the other woman could indeed cry from her dark, lonely eye.

With her own eyes, she tried to conceal her foremost question, the one she would not ask, not yet:

_What did you do?_


End file.
